Setting Out Ireland, 500 AD He sings this: wicker boat covered with skins, light among rocks and out onto seafoam. Swans overhead follow each other north past the far edge of ocean. They know they’ll find land there. He used to trade without speaking. Men offered oil, wine, amber. He countered—hunting dogs, wool, his beautiful slave. Now he owns nothing. Who is he since he buried his sword and shield, his silver bowl embossed with the story of Christ and the story of Venus? He takes bread for a journey, steps into a rudderless, oarless boat. He may come to an island and live there, a hermit, or end with the grandeur of nothing, the last bit of bread. He sings this: Water my desert. My wicker boat. Swans fly. I follow.
Suns – a poem by Barbara Daniels
Suns An owl that flew from the tundra waits on the ground, slowly turning its head almost completely around. If everything connects, owl to song, holly back to a quiet grove, can I return through vast galaxies to lie on the living room rug among fragrant pine needles, Mom and Dad asleep, the furnace wheezing? The elegant hand of Dad’s record player lifts and drops to scratched vinyl, Messiah joyously leaping the gaps. The sun comes up—beside it another sun, another, another.
Barbara Daniels’s Talk to the Lioness was published by Casa de Cinco Hermanas Press in 2020. Her poetry has appeared in Cleaver, Faultline, Small Orange, Meridian, and elsewhere. Barbara Daniels received a 2020 fellowship from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts.
Raised Beds – a poem by Sarah Clayville
Raised Beds Some say it’s sacrilege to plant above the earth, but I believe things can grow wherever there is sun and air. And rather than bury the seeds like tiny graves I carve out of bark little boats and punch holes in the base where water can travel through. I am not a gardener or a creator but rather an inventor of ways to let the light into dark spaces reserved for claustrophobic fear. When my plants rise and send their roots down below like Persephone flaunting her beauty to Hades, they will never for one second feel That I buried them alive.
Sarah Clayville writes and teaches from the wilds of central Pennsylvania with a particular focus on moments of discovery. Her work can be seen in such journals as The Threepenny Review, Literary Orphans, and The Gravity of the Thing. For more of her writing and her literary adventures with her daughter, head to SarahSaysWrite.com.
Late September – a poem by Janet Krauss
Late September (2020) There is a solemnity to late September as if the air itself is meditating, You notice a certain stillness. It is not mournful or abrupt as after the shofar penetrates distance calling worshippers to temple, its measured lament reaching back to shawled ghosts swaying as they chant, arms raised before crumbling heaps of walls. It is a stillness that sets you In a place beyond doubt, hurt, heat, cold or fear where you welcome the intimacy of the sun, though you are pleased to see it go for the clouds assist the air in its autumnal prayer.
Janet Krauss, who has two books of poetry published, “Borrowed Scenery,” Yuganta Press, and “Through the Trees of Autumn,” Spartina Press, has recently retired from teaching English at Fairfield University. Her mission is to help and guide Bridgeport’s young children through her teaching creative writing, leading book clubs and reading to and engaging a kindergarten class. As a poet, she co-directs the poetry program of the Black Rock Art Guild.
Autumn Altar – a poem by Susan Charkes
Autumn Altar “They cry out for an offering of flowers or of fruit” (after A.V. Christie) invocation of oregano mountain radiance scent of moths bearing the breath of bards black paste moldered walnut husks citric tang henna’s secret stranger wild cucumber pods mad prickles mellowed to lacy veils the spade-bitten earth a chalice for roots to milkweed the memory of Mexico ash samaras the curtain lingers riddles under wide-eyed bark never again phosphorus of the field earth lanterns possums decay before dying vitis this our grape twisting (de)pendent on the adamant other pawpaw just ready when easily bruised
Susan Charkes, writer and poet, lives in southeastern Pennsylvania. Her poetry chapbook, sp. was published in 2017. She is a member of Montco Wordshop and Tenth Sky Poets. More at susancharkes.com.
Requiem – a poem by Jo Angela Edwins
Requiem Is it animal or simply human to mourn the loss of what you wish to lose? Gnats spinning in your steaming face some bright August afternoon swing hollow in stippled rows on abandoned spider webs in almost cold October wind. You sweep the mess away. Your eyes water. Again you are the dust-kneed child heart-stung in the playground corner, beguiled by the caterpillar crushed beneath the careless bounce of a ball. A teacher tells you life’s like that, death and birth a cycle spinning like hoops around your playmates’ bellies. A tough-minded parent insists this mad world will squeeze your soul to bursting if such small things stick hard in your throat. But they do. Some dim autumn afternoon you watch dark birds by the dozens dip and rise in synchronized clouds of motion over the graying stubble of a farmer’s field. Past the strange grandeur of the moment, your first thought as their ranks disappear is to wonder how many will fall from the air before reaching some warmer destination. A friend calls you morbid. Perhaps she’s right, but you wish to think better of yourself, so you label this grief for the least of us, fleeting, an excess of love—soft as silk threads, wide as a flying thing’s horizon.
Jo Angela Edwins lives and teaches in Florence, SC. Her chapbook Play was published in 2016, and she has poems appearing or set to appear in The A3 Review, Quarterday Review, Red Rock Review, and Thimble. She has received awards from Winning Writers, Poetry Super Highway, and the SC Academy of Authors, and she currently serves as poet laureate of the Pee Dee region of South Carolina. Aside from poetry, she loves animals, flowers, and far too many television crime shows.
The Color of Orange – a poem by Jen Schneider
The Color of Orange
When I bend legs I no longer know and clench gloved fingers I no longer recognize despite the clear, disposable vinyl, I feel most myself. Neither disposable not invisible. I spent years reading Sherlock Holmes, tracking horoscopes, and streaming vinyl LPs. Always looking for myself, some mysteries solve themselves. Holding a metal shovel that somehow dignifies the task of collecting others’ trash, I reach for artifacts of lives tossed somewhere between Here and There on the Interstate – 95, 295, sometimes 2 – and I remember. Mornings of butter on warm toast. Evenings of secondhand paperbacks and warm vanilla tea. No. 2 pencils on college ruled paper and black and white crosswords. Ruby, olive, and navy-blue polished nails click laptop keys. Streams of thought turned to strings of words. Waiting. Always, for Him.
When I lower my head and tighten my core, I hear – whispers in puddles of oil and water – Don’t mix with Her, Them, Him – words float in the empty spots between Then and Now. As my eyes lock with my own reflection, I wonder about the concept of Self. Self-determination. Self-efficacy. Self-concept. Who are we? Who am I? Clothed in industrial strength cotton, stripped of zippers, buttons, and adjustable waist straps, I am a body in a basket of neon cloth. I am Strong. I am a Survivor.
Greyhounds, pass. Volvos and Chevy’s, too. Some accelerate, others slow. Small children, noses pressed against side windows, watch. They do as I would and allow their eyes the space to linger. I too have questions. I long for answers, as well. Grab your pencil and your lined paper, kids. I’ve got stories to tell. Tales of multi-purpose Easy Bake Ovens and Cabbage Patch dolls. Raggedy Ann aprons and Fisher Price castles, too. Not all mysteries solve themselves.
The stories linger with the dust in my mind, but my audience has disappeared. Electric wattage everywhere. Dr. Watson always watching. Everyone on speed. So much to do. I too used to be busy. Waiting. Mostly for Him. Now, visiting day is like most others. Pacman on repeat. Asteroids everywhere. Space Invaders Donkey Kong taunts. I wait. For the sun to rise and the plastic eggs – sunny side up – to be served. Orange circles in orange cups. More plastic. Only nothing is perfect. I lose my focus and think of the orange leather clutch in the hallway closet. Gifted on my last birthday. And odd companion to my ruby lipstick in its silver tube. Alien lips, He’d laugh. I wonder if He hid goods there, too. Now, crimson rays clash with orange peel suits. Letters of thirty-six tangerine point font clash with orange cream borders.
No matter, I’m used to clashes. Like frying-pan grease. Wars of words, too.
- Demons, Devils, and/or Dandelions
- Gnats, Ghouls, and Goldfish
- Droids, Disco Lights, and/or Date Nights
- Gooseberry Ice Cream, Game Boards, Gummy Bear.
I push aside _1__ and __2__.
I make room for __3__ and __4__.
I play games of pinball, chess, and mad libs in my head. Check mates and continue to sweep. Swap nouns with verbs. Aliases, too. Consume gallons of engine fuel, exhaust, and bitter pepper. Pepper spray, too. Toxins, everywhere. Cough and carry-on. As my broom bristles sort through discarded dust and ungloved debris of others’ lives, I sweep the caverns and dark corners of my mind. Inhale the lavender, lilac, and daisies of my dreams. Prehistoric peonies bloom eternal.
Trash, too. I bend and scoop Coca Cola bottles – 5 and 10 cents a pop, Marlboro and Kent cigarette butts, stamped and shredded movie tickets – AMC, Regal, and lipstick stained Starbucks coffee cups. Everything is branded. Me, too. I am a brand of dollar stores, fast-food drive ins, and deep discount mattress stores. Of second-hand video game cartridges, VHS tapes, and metallic blue polish. Of 100 percent cotton T’s, vegetable soup, and create your own adventure stories. Graffiti painted walls, Converse high tops, and Hello Kitty plaid sheets. Of wars lost and words misunderstood. Of unknowing conspiracies and unknown names.
I’m used to clashes. Clocks, too.
No ornaments allowed. No jewelry or memories, either. I mark time by the movement of the sun and sky. Palms up, scorched by orange rays. Palms down, scorched of words.
I’m frying pan grease. Careful, it’s hot.
When I bend, sweep, scoop, and sniff, I feel simultaneously busy and most at peace.
Some mysteries solve themselves.
Jen Schneider is an educator, attorney, and writer. She lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Philadelphia. Recent work appears in The Popular Culture Studies Journal, Toho Journal, The New Verse News, Zingara Poetry Review, Streetlight Magazine, Chaleur Magazine, LSE Review of Books, and other literary and scholarly journals.
Women’s Circle on a Friday Evening – a poem by Melody Wang
Women’s Circle on a Friday Evening What do you seek? the sage’s eyes are kind, her voice gentle, allowing me space to revel in the silence. I am tense, unable to meet her gaze. Clarity, I finally choke, my eyes closing I can feel my heart, long burdened with sorrow, opening amid a room of strangers, releasing all that had bound me for the past decade marking your departure from this earth Beyond this sanctuary, the sullen rain falls like a mantra. As if in a dream or perhaps a faded memory, I hear the sage’s voice murmur something about eucalyptus trees I sink into a kinder time of soft sunlight, lemony scent of crescent leaves permeating the air, the familiar grove enveloping me in a warm embrace and at the far end I see you, one eye closed and one eye open — a smile softening your face, you hover between realms, so aware of both and yet enveloped in the sweetest slumber See you soon, my smile back is tremulous. I slowly exhale and linger in the stillness. I know this now: you lived. You felt it all and persevered. I will do the same.
Melody Wang currently resides in sunny Southern California with her dear husband. In her free time, she dabbles in piano composition and also enjoys hiking, baking, and playing with her dogs. She can be found on Twitter @MelodyOfMusings.
Drop in a Waterfall – a poem by James Hannon
Drop In A Waterfall Who tells me a drop in a waterfall is not enough? Must I shine like a sun so my planets can orbit around me? Or be an angel at the top of the tree? What is so wrong about being part of the flow, one among many? My sister brother droplets, what is the ocean but all of us finally together?
James Hannon is a psychotherapist in Massachusetts where he accompanies adolescents and adults recovering from disappointments, deceptions, and addictions. His poetry and non-fiction have appeared in journals including Amethyst Review, Blue River, Cold Mountain Review and in Gathered: Contemporary Quaker Poets. His collection, The Year I Learned The Backstroke,was published by Aldrich Press.
Silence Heard on San Bernadino Peak – a poem by James Green
The Lord said, "Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by." Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper. 1 Kings 19:11-12 (NIV) Silence Heard on San Bernardino Peak You will meet winds named the Santa Anas on the trail to San Bernardino Peak. Some say before the Spaniards came the Serranos called them Satanas – Devil Winds. They gather in the high desert, then vector through passes bending limber pines and leaving time-hewn boulders polished smooth, a path of round-rock moraine strewn from San Gorgonio’s crest down to the trailhead, witness to power and glory riding thunder and lighting, chasing clouds back to the coast. I went there, to the summit, as I was told you can hear these winds and rocks speak and I made my camp leeward of an outcropping then waited and listened, hoping for the voice of an archangel, maybe Gabriel or Michael or one of the others, but no one spoke, only the noise of wind, but I am used to that, and besides, if I were a chosen one, I am not certain I could handle it – the weight of it all – so I settled in for the night and watched first stars appear above the San Andreas, a crease that runs through these mountains, and I thought about the myth of solid ground while the wind grew louder and lights from the valley began to flicker like embers. I tried not to think about the earth swallowing the mountainside, and I slept. Sometime during the night the winds, by whatever name, calmed and when I woke all I heard was a whisper in the pines, then silence so utter I was listening to my own breath and all thought went the way of a star racing across the heavens, falling into hushed space.
James Green has published four chapbooks of poetry. His individual poems have appeared in literary magazines in Ireland, the UK, and the USA. Formerly a university professor and administrator, he is now retired and resides in Muncie, Indiana. You may contact him through his website at www.jamesgreenpoetry.net
